


Connection

by maebyrutherford (maeberutherford)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hair, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 06:45:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4090972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maeberutherford/pseuds/maebyrutherford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen REALLY likes the Herald's hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Connection

**Author's Note:**

> A tiny bit of self-insertion, (I am finally embracing my curls), loosely based on personal experience.

****“I believe we shall be the most effective if we garrison our troops right hair.”

Cullen places a forces marker on the map and crosses his arms, waiting for the others to comment, only to be met with barely stifled giggles from Leliana and Josephine. Cassandra rolls her eyes and the Herald looks at each of them, a little lost.

He frowns at this display of unprofessionalism; what must the Herald think? “Pray tell, what is so amusing?”

“They are giggling like fishwives because you said ‘hair’ instead of ‘here’, Commander,” Cassandra declares, glancing at the Herald.

His face is burning and  _she’s_  watching him and he’s rooted to the spot and he realizes;  _Maker, I **did**  say hair, didn’t I?_

He’s mortified, because now she’ll  _know._

The Herald of Andraste, Ingrid Trevelyan, she’ll know that he’s developed an interest in (or, to be more accurate, an obsession with) her magnificent mane.

She’ll know that he has never seen anything more captivating than her wild halo of thick chestnut curls, the seemingly thousands of tightly coiled ringlets that surround her radiant face and spill across her shoulders and down her back, and he simply cannot get them, or her, out of his mind.

She’ll know that he daydreams about how her hair would feel in his hands, idly twisting the curls around his fingers, or that he tries to imagine the sensation of them tickling his chest as she leans over him. Andraste preserve him, he can’t stop himself from picturing what she would look like with her locks splayed out all around her on his bed, dark eyes beckoning, or with her ringlets tossed against her bare back, undulating beneath him.

Once, when she was leaning over to grab a bite of food from his plate, her hair had brushed up against his cheek – there was so much of it, he imagined that happened often – and he was certain he’d never again encounter anything softer.

“You must have misheard,” he manages, “I said  _here_ , we’ll put the troops  _here_.”

“No, you did indeed say hair, but I’m not sure why your slip of the tongue is so funny.” Ingrid cocks an eyebrow at both Leliana and Josie, who start to snicker all over again.

Cullen shifts his weight from one foot to the other at her unfortunate choice in words, rubbing the back of his neck

Ingrid throws up her hands. “Okay, clearly I’m missing out on something here. Cass?”

“Ugh, do not mind them,” Cassandra silences them with a withering look, then turns to Cullen. “Please, Commander, continue.”

Josie composes herself. “My apologies Commander, yes please do continue. Of course, I am always game to discuss hair, if you prefer.”

“Perhaps the hair of a certain someone in particular?” Leliana chimes in, entirely too pleased with herself.

_Oh perfect,_  Cullen thinks,  _I make **one** comment in passing…that’s the last time I tell them  **anything**._

“All right, we are finished here,” Cassandra announces, “Meeting adjourned.”

_Bless that woman_. Josie and Leliana saunter out side by side behind Cassandra, still tittering.

Ingrid reaches the door just as he does, and he opens it, gesturing for her to go first. For a moment her back is to him, and all he can see from his vantage point is curls for days tapering off at the curve of her back, and he’s lost count at how many times he’s had to stop himself from touching it. It would be crass, inconsiderate, uninvited, a violation of her personal space and he would  _neve_ r, of course. He feels rude for even thinking of it, and yet, the urge to somehow get closer to her is very strong. He squashes it swiftly, as he always does.

She starts to leave but hesitates, lingers, turning to face him.

“So...what was that all about?” She’s twisting a lock in her fingers, her mouth turned up into a lopsided smirk. An errant curl flops over her eye and his breath quickens, ever so slightly.

“One can never tell with those two,” he lies. “May I walk you somewhere?”

She shrugs, but it’s not indifference he sees in her eyes. “Sure, I was just going back to my cabin.”

They walk side by side in silence, until she sighs heavily. 

“Speaking of hair, I desperately need to wash this rat’s nest.” She’s pulling a strand out in front of her, supposedly observing the implied filth.

He’s trying not to stare, to watch how the wind plays with her long hair. She’s close enough that some of it is blowing against his arm, and he’s a little bit devastated that he can’t feel it through his armor.

“It’s certainly not a rat’s nest.”

“I know you’re trying to be nice, but it’s okay, Cullen. I know it’s a wild mess. Honestly it was fun while it lasted, but I’ve been thinking about cutting it. You know with all this fighting and traveling it just gets in the way.”

They’re outside her cabin now and Cullen winces at the suggestion.

“I rather like your hair,” he can’t believe he’s saying it, it just rolls out, and she turns to him, surprised. He meets her gaze and doesn’t break it.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. Don’t you realize how remarkable you are?”

Ingrid’s eyes widen at his comment, and she stops fiddling with her hair.

He’s been too forward. They barely know each other and she’s the Herald and Maker, he’s  _flirting,_ and it’s entirely inappropriate _._

“That is, I mean, your  _hair_ is remarkable. Not that  _you_  aren’t remarkable, of course, you have that mark and – well, you aren’t special  _only_  because of the mark…” He exhales, suddenly dizzy, looking anywhere but in her eyes. “Maker, I should probably stop talking now.”

“I see.” Her color is rising, perhaps from the cold. “Well, thank you, I’ll take that into consideration.” 

Suddenly she’s on her tip toes and her hands are on his shoulders and her lips are brushing his cheek and the wind gusts her hair up around his face, smelling of something he can’t identify but won’t likely forget. “Good afternoon, Commander.” And then she’s gone.

Cullen is left standing alone, still feeling the ghost of her kiss. As a heavy snow starts to fall on Haven and he returns to the chantry, he considers  _all_  of her – mind, body and soul – and braces himself for the coming storm.


End file.
